


Wildfire

by GalaxyGhosty



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 08:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: AU. “First rule of my office,” Anti says pleasantly. “I'm the one in charge.”





	Wildfire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drakojana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakojana/gifts), [AssbuttOfTheReaders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssbuttOfTheReaders/gifts).



> Not much to say about this piece except for the fact that it's mostly for my friends Lina, Em, and Emi from my discord server, who both really, really like Anti/Mark, in contrast to my fervent love of Dark/Jack. They've all been super awesome about gifting me some stellar Dark/Jack works, so this is my little thank you.
> 
> It's kind of crap because I mostly wrote it when I was half awake and dissociating, but hopefully it's decent enough to be called a "gift." 
> 
> More to come. Thanks for reading.

When small, unafraid Mark Fischbach steps into Anti's office, he knows today is going to be interesting.

Mostly because he has blood on his hands, indicating he'd likely fought through his poor, unsuspecting attack dogs to get to him. 

Anti puffs out smoke as Mark wipes his nose, some of the blood smearing onto his nose and mouth. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulls out an envelope, and tosses it onto Anti's desk. 

Stupid, stupid boy. “What's this?” 

“Your name is Anti,” Mark says, his gaze zeroed in on the lit end of his cigarette. “You're the nastiest sonofabitch on this side of town, you'll do anything for money, and I need you to kill someone for me.” 

Rolling the cigarette in his fingers, Anti stares at him. He holds it between his teeth as he grabs the envelope, thumbing over the copious amounts of bills. Without counting, Anti knows this is much more than your run-of-the-mill hit job. Whoever Fischbach wants dead, he means it.

Funny, that, how he doesn't seem like that sort of person at all.

“Why?” Anti sets the envelope back down, looking at him with his sickly green eyes. “What'd the bitch do to you that'd make an innocent like you call for his head?”

Mark bristles. “Does it matter? Look, I got you money, and I know everything you could wanna know about him. Is that not enough? How much will it cost me for you to do it slowly and painfully, with as _much_ blood as possible?”

Anti lets out a low whistle. He doesn't say anything for a moment, testing the waters of Fischbach's patience as he stubs out the cigarette on his desk. He leans back in his chair and looks at him, crossing his arms. “What if I say no?” 

And that—Fischbach had not been expecting that. “You can't be serious.”

He smoothes his fingers over the envelope, marred slightly with stains and blood. “Considering you didn't bother to schedule a meeting with me, and you beat the ever loving shit out of my dogs, I may just keep this money as compensation for your rude behavior.”

Anti thinks this isn't the first time he's watched a man twice his size ball his fists in anger. It's not the first time a brute has thought Anti was weaker. Mark slams his hands on Anti's desk, and Anti doesn't even jump, this has happened so many times. 

“You can't be serious!” he repeats, tone incredulous and furious. “I just want you to kill someone for me!”

It's very clear to Anti that he has no idea what he's getting himself into. With a soft smile, Anti rises to his feet, stepping around the desk. Mark rises to his full height, and they're about the same, but that doesn't stop Anti from pressing a hand to his face, and with half of his strength, he shoves the other male to the wall. 

Mark goes easily, startled by both his strength and the sudden movement. When his back hits the wall, Anti moves his hand to his throat, pressing against his windpipe, and the resounding choke is music to his ears. 

With his free hand, Anti withdraws a knife from his back pocket, jabbing it into the wall right next to his head. Mark's eyes go wide. 

“First rule of my office,” Anti says pleasantly. “I'm the one in charge.” 

He pauses for emphasis. Then he continues. “The second rule of my office is that you're not. I choose what jobs I take, and which ones I don't, and if you don't like it, I have plenty more knives where this one came from.” 

Mark regards him with a hooded gaze, or perhaps he's just running out of air. Anti loosens his hold, and he feels the other breathe in. “Third rule of my office—don't touch my desk. It's not more expensive than your life, I'm just rather fond of it and would rather not have blood there, if I didn't put it there. Are we clear?”

The other man says nothing, and Anti presses down again. “Are. We. Clear?” 

Wordlessly, Mark nods, and Anti pulls his hand away. There's still a spark in Mark's eye, and Anti rather like the look of it. “Good. Now, what are the rules? Tell me.”

“First rule of the office,” Mark croaks out, rubbing his throat. “You're in charge. Second, I'm not. Third, don't touch your desk.” 

Anti smiles, all teeth and bad intentions. “You learn quickly. Alright. Back to business, shall we? Who am I killing, and why?” 

He looks like he has another question on his lips. Anti answers it for him. “I just like to know the reasons of my clients. It doesn't influence whether or not I accept the job. I've killed husbands of wives who just wanted him dead. Mothers of children who wanted money. All kinds.”

“He killed my mother,” Mark says, after a moment. “Hit and run. Wouldn't own up to it, kept claiming my mom was the one at fault. He was drunk.” 

Anti nods. “Pity, that. I would say I'm sorry for your loss, but to be fair, I don't know the woman, so I'm not going to bother. But I'll take care of it. Keep an eye on the news. I'm sure he'll pop up once he's dead.” 

“And that's that?”

“And that's that,” Anti echoes. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mark Fischbach.” 

“How do you know my name?” Anti's gaze slides back up to him, confused and for the first time, marginally afraid. 

Pulling out another cigarette from the carton, Anti lights it, taking a sharp inhale before he blows the smoke out again.

“I know a lot of things,” Anti says. “Don't worry.”

He waves his hand, and Mark takes that as dismissal. 

~~

Very rarely does Anti decide not to go through with a kill. It always gives him an adrenaline rush when he does it, anyway. So deciding not to is usually a sign that something's important. 

He's already got the blood pumping through him, heart racing slightly faster than normal—he's ready. Anti's stealthy as can be, ready to pump the target full of bullets and leave the scene, as he always does, as he always should. 

But looking at the pathetic weed of a boy, not even worthy of being called a man—begging for his life, the football trophies and equipment lying around the room, Anti has a much better idea. 

Fischbach gave him too much money in order to kill. How about ruining someone's life instead?

~~

He should have expected to see Mark Fischbach again. 

“I wanted him _dead_!” he screams, and does he not have any concept of professionalism? “You _fuck_!” 

Anti skirts his eyes over those bloody hands. “Did you beat up my dogs again? You are so rude.” 

Mark breaks every rule of the office, stomping over to his desk, knocking the lamp off. “I _paid_ you to _kill_ him! He's still alive!” 

“Oh, is he?” Anti asks sarcastically. “Pity, that. Yes, I'm well aware, Mr. Fischbach. Consider it a courtesy. You paid me far too much for a simple hit job. Now kindly stop touching my desk.”

He wonders how many more things Mark will break before he's satisfied. Reaching across the desk, he grabs a fistful of Anti's shirt, hard, but not attacking. A warning. “What do you _mean_ a courtesy?” 

Anti realizes with clarity that this young man, while a powerful storm, needs to be controlled. Grabbing the wrist that holds him, he digs his nails into the soft skin, twisting slightly. “Take your hands off me.” 

Mark grits his teeth. “Not until you explain why you didn't go through with it. If you weren't going to take the fucking job, you should've just told me so I could go to someone who would.”

“And you would've spent the rest of your life regretting it,” Anti spits back. “You're a stupid boy who's getting in way over his head. You didn't _need_ him dead.” 

“But I _wanted_ him dead!” Mark's trembling, then. He abruptly lets go of him. “And you didn't do it, even after telling me you would. I want my money back.” 

Anti smoothes down his shirt, popping a cigarette into his mouth, he lights it, holding it between his lips and he moves around the desk. “That kid you wanted me to kill was an allstar football quarterback for his college. He was liable to be picked up by the NFL within the next couple of months, so you know what I did? I shattered his legs beyond repair. He will never do what he loves. And the best part is? I made it look like he did it on purpose. He can't even claim it as a publicity stunt, or an inspirational story. He's forever disgraced and his life is in shambles, at the pivitol point in his life. That, my darling, is a fate worthy of the amount of money you paid me.” 

“But he's still _alive_ ,” and he sees the moment at which Mark's fight leaves him. “And my mom—my mom... _isn't_.”

And Anti realizes that this is about more than money, more than pointless bloodlust. He's met dozens of men who have hired him because they could, because they wanted to see someone's world burn to the ground, out of pleasure, out of vengeance. Little Mark Fischbach doesn't belong in this world. Because this isn't out of either one of those things—it's about creating balance. Writing wrongs. Filling the void so deep seeded in his chest. 

“Silly boy,” Anti says, after a moment. He huffs a breath of smoke out. “No amount of killing will bring her back. It's a fool's dream to wish for more than is ever possible.” 

Mark is quiet for a long time. Anti enjoys his smoke, watching him tremble like a wet dog, hands twitching, and he thinks that it's entirely likely those hands could kill him. But they won't. Not without a little practice, after all. 

“If you won't kill him,” Mark spits out, “then _I_ will. Thanks for nothing, asshole.”

Holding the cigarette between his lips, Anti straightens up. He raises a brow, cocking his head, a silent challenge. “Really. You're going to go out and kill him? Didn't I just tell you that wouldn't solve anything?” 

“I don't care what you say,” Mark finally looks him in the eye. Few people in this world look him in the eye. Anti's heard the stories—some people say he's cursed, that if you look him in the eye, you're going to wind up dead. “Because you're not the boss of me, and you don't have any idea what you're talking about.” 

How wrong he is.

Anti smiles. Stepping forward, he grabs Mark by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward. Removing the cigarette from his lips, he brings down the lit end onto the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

Mark _howls_. He punches him across the face. Anti stumbles a bit, but it's a good hit overall.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” Mark screams, pressing down on the burn. Anti hopes it blisters and scars. “You freak!” 

“You don't have what it takes,” Anti sneers out, eyes hard. “To kill a man in cold blood. You can't even hit me hard, pretty boy. I'm not even bleeding. All those muscles and still you pussied out. Why don't you direct that anger somewhere actually feasible?” 

He tosses his cigarette to the side, ignoring how it still glows at the tip. Mark lets out an irritated noise, half a grunt, half a snarl, and Anti is surprised that it takes as long as he does for him to grab him by his shirt collar again. This time, however, he slams him up against the wall. 

“You want me to kill _you_?” Mark shrieks, and how easily this boy is manipulated by a few gnarled words, by drawn out syllables. Anti could use someone like this. “Is that what you want?” 

Anti can't help the involuntary smile, watching the brown eyes narrow, mouth twisting in anger. He's a wildfire, untamed and ready to eat whatever stands in his way, destructive and eager to prove himself. It's been a long time since Anti's been burned by any flame. He's ready for it. He welcomes it.

“Might be interesting,” Anti purrs, voice laced with promises that he doesn't intend to keep. He's got every intention of consuming this fire whole. “If you were to try.” 

He lowers his voice, hushed and inviting, and for a moment Mark's grip stalls, eyes darting down to his lips, panicked and a little curious. He knows Anti's intentions are double-edged, that there's something to them other than face value, but it's all the incentive that he needs to fist a sharp hand into black locks. He pulls Mark close, not enough to touch. Waiting.

“You wanna play with the big boys?” Anti breathes out, watching that spark kindle in his eyes. “You have to earn it. Prove to me that you're strong.” 

And Mark scowls at that, annoyance evident, but Anti loves getting what he wants. Bracing a hand on the opposite side of his head, Mark crashes their lips together, hungry and rough and just the way Anti likes it. A sharp bite comes to his bottom lip before his mouth is invaded, the tang of blood hitting his tongue as he rolls his head back. 

He's certainly been around the block a couple of times, that's for sure. Mark continues to kiss him, heavy with intent as he grabs his right leg, hoisting it up. Anti follows the wordless command, wrapping his leg around Mark's hip, tilting his head to the side as Mark sinks his teeth into his neck, rolling their hips together to punctuate the point. 

“My, my,” Anti hisses out as Mark's tongue trails along the fresh bite. “You're going to be a fun one, aren't you?”

“Bet I get you begging by the end of the night,” Mark rumbles against his throat, pressing his fingers into his thigh, blunt nails digging into the thin material of his pants. He raises those pretty brown eyes to look at him again, lidded with a newfound lust, and tonight just got a whole lot more interesting.

“I beg for no one,” Anti whispers, and once the challenge is issued, there's no going back.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Thank you so much.


End file.
